The Tenfold Student
by ShamelessOCcentricity
Summary: Most 18 year olds want a car and a party. Not Rosabel. Nope, she wants a month-long apprenticeship each with ten of our favourite characters. It's hard to say whom I feel the most sorry for...
1. A Study in Bildungsroman

"Rosabel."

I don't know how long I stood there staring at him. He hadn't been down here in years—I'd requested my own space and freedom, and he'd obliged.

He looked at me with just the faintest trace of the awkwardness I knew he must be feeling—knew because I felt it too, and we could be so alike that it scared me at times. I didn't want to end up cold like him.

But he steeled himself and I offered him a polite smile in return. "Hello, Father. What brings you down here?" I knew the answer, of course, but he himself had taught me to begin conversations with questions to which I already knew the answer.

"You're coming of age next week," He reminded me stiffly, still hovering in the doorway like he wasn't sure he was welcome in the small house on the grounds of the family manor—the manor he owned, mind you. But he seemed relieved I'd started the remarkably mundane conversation myself.

"Yes sir, I'm aware."

"It's customary for one to receive a gift on one's birthday, particularly the milestone ones. Have you given any thought to what you'd like?"

I surveyed my father, the man who'd—well, he'd spared me the therapy years I would've needed if he'd raised me, but he _had_ hired the people who did raise me and had provided me with this cottage when I'd started getting nightmares as a child because the house was too big and scary. If I asked him to do so, he would make me Queen of the World. However, a display of affection would be too much to ask.

Luckily, I knew how to make him proud of me. "I want to spend a month in the company of these ten people in the next year, learning their trade, so to speak. I'd take one week to myself between each, and by my next birthday I'll be ready to choose my career path."

I handed him the list, which ran thus:

_Martha Hudson—house keeping_

_Irene Adler—manipulation_

_Anthea X—espionage_

_Gregory Lestrade—police work_

_John Watson—doctoring_

_Sebastian Moran—sniping_

_James Moriarty—criminal activity_

_Sherlock Holmes—deduction_

_Molly Hooper—forensic pathology_

_Mycroft Holmes—government work_

There was a pause as my father studied the paper (which was, in case you haven't been paying attention to the blogs, composed of some genii, some military men, and some ordinary people—three of which were officially dead, oddly enough).

"I know three are your enemies. I want to choose my own side in the war you're fighting."

He raised an eyebrow at that, but all he said was, "I'm on this list."

"Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. Is this in the order you'd like to learn?"

"Yes sir, it is."

"I can have this arranged. Most of them reside in London; would you like me to arrange for you to have living quarters there?"

"I was actually thinking of the following residence," I flipped the paper over and pointed.

"221C Baker Street," He read aloud. "Very well, then."

**Yep. This story will probably have 12 chapters—this one, the ten "apprenticeships", and then a resolution.**


	2. A Study in HouseKeeping

"This should be nice and cosy, dearie. Is this your first place on your own?"

"Yes ma'am it is." I said politely, studying her in interest. She had a bad hip, had once been married, was extremely worried about John, and was still grieving for Sherlock despite trying to keep up a good façade around the doctor—and indeed, everyone else.

"You don't have to call me ma'am, dear."

I faked a smile at her, but had absolutely no intention of changing it, lest I get into bad habits. I caught a glimpse of myself in the window and was struck by how similar I looked to my father there.

"Is there anything else I can get you?"

I smiled genuinely—that's what I'd wanted to hear. "Yes. Can you teach me everything you know about managing a household?"

"Oh, I'm not exactly an expert." She said, laughing. "This place is a mess, after all."

"I think it's brilliant. Please? I grew up in a wealthy household, so we had all sorts of people to do this for me. I never learned."

Naturally, I was lying. What on earth was I supposed to do _besides_ housework?

There's only so much careful studying you can do when you've got a brilliant mind like mine. (I realise that sounds wildly narcissistic, but how many of you can honestly say you finished an anatomy textbook cover-to-cover in three hours, yet never forgot a word of it? I thought so. Now, let's accept that I am a genius, plain and simple, and move on, before I start reciting it word-for-word, _backwards_, in Latin.)

"Surely a girl like you has something better to do than listen to an old lady's ramblings."

I was beginning to like this self-deprecating nature. It could be very useful in a situation where I needed an enemy to underestimate me.

"Nonsense. I took my classes over the summer, and I have a month until I travel to America. I can't imagine a better way to spend my last week of freedom than learning something new."

"Well… I suppose."

I clapped my hands together and beamed. "So it's settled! And naturally, I'll compensate you for your services."

"That's quite alright, dearie." She said, waving the thought away.

"Nonetheless, I insist."

Mrs. Hudson paused and studied me. "You remind me of someone…" She said after a moment.

"Really?" Remembering that she'd known my father, I felt the slightest bit uneasy. "Might I ask of whom I remind you?"

It was her turn to beam. "You're related to Mycroft Holmes, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." I said coldly, but the mirror behind her once again made me regret it; I sounded just like him.

"I knew it. It's the eyes, dear; you can never hide family resemblance that much."

I stared at her. She didn't hate me, though I knew from her file she didn't get on with my father that well. How had this woman, a woman of no great intelligence, figured it out so easily?

"Um."

"So how is this little teaching thing supposed to work?"

"I suppose you just go about your usual business and I ask whatever questions I have."

"Oh, well, I need to make tea for John first. Come on, the kitchen's this way, dearie."

I looked around her kitchen, and then perched in a corner and began stirring the scone batter. She didn't seem interested in conversation, instead humming to herself and bustling around.

After she went through the bridge of the song for the third time, I decided to make conversation:

"Roman girls would follow their mothers around as adolescents in order to learn how to properly go about running a household. It was the female equivalency to the boys going to school."

"You like history?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she set a kettle on to boil.

"Actually, I like Latin; it just happens I learn a lot of history."

"You must've inherited the Holmes brain."

How casually she refers to my family's brilliance, like it's all the same. My father is calm, collected, his mind a well-oiled machine. My uncle—yes, for all the more idiotic readers, if Mycroft is my father, Sherlock is my uncle—has a mind like flames, jumping from topic like a raging wildfire. My grandmother had a leisurely mind that moved at whatever pace she asked it to with no problem—or so I'm told.

But my mind? It moves too fast for me to get anything done on purpose, and heaven forbid something get in its way. I guess the best simile would be that it's like a river, rushing downhill at impossible speeds, unable to go back uphill but too powerful to be stopped.

Rather than explain this to her, I said: "I must have." Then, anxious to change the subject, "What's taking this kettle so long?"

"A watched pot never boils."

"That's ridiculous; my watching it wouldn't have any effect on it. It's not like the water could possibly be aware of my presence."

"Just an old saying, dear. It means if you're impatient things seem to take longer."

"Patience is not in my nature."

She clucked. "I bet it isn't, dearie, with your family."

"Enough about my family!" I said, voice raised and fingers clenched into fists.

"What family is that?" A sleepy voice asked.

"Ooh, John, this is Mycroft's daughter; she just moved into 221C, isn't that lovely? We just put the water on for tea."

"Mycroft Holmes?" Dr. Watson said in disbelief. "Never figured him for the sentimental type."

"You figured correctly. Pleasure to meet you; the name's Rosabel Odette Holmes."

I think it was the Holmes flint to my voice that rallied the broken man before me. He shook his head as if to clear it and offered a hand. "I'm—"

"Doctor John Hamish Watson, ex-army doctor, sent home with a psychosomatic limp from an injury to the right shoulder and _supposedly_ PTSD from the war, resident and now sole owner of 221B Baker Street. I read the file."

"Your dad let you go looking though files?" He asked sharply.

"Not usually, but upon realising I'd be living in close proximity to you and would eventually go looking for answers he gave me the facts instead."

"And the facts are?"

I smirked. "Confidential."

"Tell Mycroft to send people who don't look like _him_ to come spy next time, will you?" He stormed off rather theatrically with that.

I frowned. "What did I do?" I asked Mrs. Hudson, tilting my head to one side.

"You reminded him of Sherlock, I think." She said sadly. "Here's his tea, dear, you'd best go apologise so he doesn't sulk."

The tea cup was warm against my palm as I carried it away wordlessly. I've never apologised before, so it was bound to be a disaster.

John Watson was sitting down, halfway doubled over and gripping the arms of his chair like it was a lifeline. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm really not—oh. It's you."

"I'm afraid so." I replied, setting the cup down.

"Go away, please."

"You're in the middle of a paroxysm of grief. I don't think I'm morally allowed to leave."

"I don't want you to—" He broke off again.

"See you cry?" I guessed shrewdly. "It isn't a weakness, John."

"What would you know?"

Okay, so I also had never seen anyone cry before, and hadn't cried myself since I was three years old and learning to cut up onions.

I cast about for a literary reference. "You know the great Greek hero Odysseus? Well, there's a bard singing of the Trojan War, and Odysseus hangs his head and weeps openly."

"Oh, so reading an old book makes you an expert?"

"Look, Dr. Watson, I'm sorry your best friend committed suicide and left you floundering about in a world that doesn't make sense without him.

"I'm sorry it's mostly my father's fault.

"I'm sorry I don't understand the point of apologising for something that isn't my fault.

"I'm sorry I've never socialised outside of carefully arranged social interactions in appropriate settings with people all picked by my father and the staff.

"And I'm sorry that all that's left of my uncle is a broken military man and a flat full of junk in boxes you can't bear to discard.

"But last time I checked I'm not Moriarty, or Sherlock, or Mycroft. So stop moping, drink your tea, and give me a chance."

He stared at me and I folded my arms. "I'm genetically predisposed to melodrama, okay?" I mumbled.

For what I suspected was the first time in a while, John Watson laughed.

x-x-x-x-x

The next day wasn't nearly as interesting. Actually, I'd been up for five hours and the most interesting thing I'd done was find out how to make omelettes (you can't stir them, even though you feel absolutely certain it'll burn to the bottom of the pan if you don't, because then they'll be scrambled eggs).

And my arms hurt, because the last hour or so had been dedicated to mopping. I had discovered rather quickly that mopping could, in fact, be aerobic.

"Make sure you mop with the grain of the wood, dearie. I'm making plum pudding, by the way."

Damn my stubborn nature that had insisted I take care of the mopping.

x-x-x-x-x

"The best way to clean a window is to spray, like that, and then wipe in a circular motion with a scrunched up newspaper before it can drip."

"Won't the ink bleed onto the window?"

"Not at all."

"Hmm… Who do you reckon thought to use newspaper first?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "I haven't the faintest. But this is why you always keep old newspapers around, because they're great for catching messes and cleaning windows."

x-x-x-x-x

"I always cover baking sheets with aluminium foil so they're easier to clean."

x-x-x-x-x

"It doesn't matter who's visiting or if you want them out, it's always nice to offer guests tea, coffee, and biscuits."

"I suppose it's bad manners to poison them?"

"Yes, dear."

"You can, um, call me Rose."

"Rose it is, then."

x-x-x-x-x

"There's more to running a household than welcoming guests and keeping it clean."

"Really?" I hadn't seen her do much else, honestly.

She nodded emphatically. "You have to take care of people in the household."

"What if we don't have other people?" I asked. "What if we're alone?"

"Then you could always rent rooms out. Sometimes there'll be unpleasant tenants, but sometimes you might be lucky to get perfect dears like you and John."

"I'm not good with people."

Mrs. Hudson looked at me with something I can only assume was maternal instinct and connection to Sherlock making her feel affection for me. "Neither was he, Rose. You remind me of him—it's a good thing, too, because he was a good person." She laid a hand on my shoulder here, as if to put emphasis on her words.

"I'm not sure if I want to be a good person yet."

x-x-x-x-x

We were watching the first few episodes of Doctor Who after I finished my chores that day. John and Mrs. H had been horrified to discover I hadn't seen it, but I could tell almost immediately that just maybe a normal person and an enigmatic stranger grabbing each other's hands and running through London was too close to an old reality for John's likings.

I rather liked that there was a girl named Rose, even if she was a sentimental idiot.

It was then that Mrs. Hudson announced she was going to see her sister the next afternoon, and could I please take over for the day?

"But tomorrow's Thursday." John said blankly. "We go to the graveyard on Thursdays."

They had, the past three weeks, gone to the graveyard each Thursday and Monday. I'd gone twice myself.

"Rose can go with you."

So that's how I ended up going to the graveyard with just John for the first time.

Standing on an empty grave with a grief stricken man when I knew the person supposed to be six feet beneath me was actually roaming the streets of Cairo… Not exactly my first choice of ways to spend a lazy afternoon.

"Shite," Was the first word of John's mouth.

I had to agree, even if such vulgar language was beneath me. Not only was the word _fraud _spray painted in huge all-capital letters across the tombstone, but the journalists were on the scene.

Upon seeing us, one of them bounded over and shoved a recorder under John's nose. "Dr. Watson! What do you have to say in response to this instance of vandalism?"

"Doctor, get back in the cab." I ordered.

"Rosabel—"

"Please, John!"

He obeyed. I must've sounded like Sherlock because that's the only time he ever obeys my orders.

"Who might you be?"

"Are you the mystery girl who's been accompanying John Watson to the grave the past two weeks?"

"What's your name?"

"Why are you grieving for Sherlock Holmes?"

"Do you believe he's a fraud?"

What would Mrs. Hudson expect me to do? This was never covered in all of her little lessons…I scanned the journalists and allowed a smirk to show across my face as I realised it had been. _There's more to running a household than welcoming guests and keeping it clean. You have to take care of people in the household._

Mrs. Hudson had refused to take my money in return for this (though my father assured me she'd be paid indirectly), and I realised in that moment that this was the best way to repay her, better than all the money in England.

"I _know_ he's not a fraud."

"If he's not a fraud, why did he commit suicide?"

"I would imagine Moriarty reminded him he had nothing left to live for. The city and people he dedicated his life to—solving crimes for Scotland Yard without so much as minimum wage, taking murderers off the streets—had turned on him on the word of his enemy. His only friends were bound to be outcasts at the hands of heartless jackals like you.

"One week you were singing his praises and an interview from a jaded amateur journalist is enough to make you back up his worst enemy as the victim. I would jump off a building too, if I were surrounded by idiots like you."

They were brave (brave is by far the kindest word for stupid, isn't it?), I had to give them that; rather than back off, they tried to get me to trip up on myself.

"Why do you consider yourself such an expert on Sherlock Holmes?"

"Because much like Sherlock, I'm invariably smarter than most of London."

"What makes you so sure you're smarter than us?" Another replied sharply.

Oh, this was going to be fun. "Does your wife know you're sleeping with your male assistant?

"And you, it must be so pathetic, living alone with four cats and shagging your boss.

"And _you_ faked your credentials from college, so you might as well stop sniggering at this sod and his _gunsel_.

"By the way, can I borrow _your_ phone? I want to call NSY and inform them that _she_ painted this herself knowing John would come here today, hoping to get a good scoop.

"Oh, sweetie, running won't stop you from being arrested for vandalism; I can just track you based on the fact that you work for _The Sun_ and your car is in the shop."

There was a long pause, and then one of the guys who hadn't been deduced yet turned to his camera man. "Please tell me you got all that." He whispered.

"And you're colour-blind and knew all about the vandalism ploy, so I suggest you delete this footage. I hope you remember this, at any rate: for all the things I figured out here, I am but a mere student to the master. Uncle Sherlock taught me deductive reasoning when he came to my tenth birthday party, as a present."

I heard two footsteps and then John's hand found my shoulder and spun me around. "That was…"

"Mediocre compared to him, I know." I said. "Now get me out of here before I punch someone."

x-x-x-x-x

I was up until midnight that night, scrubbing down a marble surface with a citrus based paint stripper. I could've used a more effective one to get it done faster, but Mrs. Hudson always used eco-friendly cleaners, and I figured if I was going to clean outside I ought not to dump poisons around.

x-x-x-x-x

"Rosabel! I saw you on the news." Mrs. Hudson said by way of greeting.

I pushed my hair back. "Yeah, not my best moment for self control, but I think I understand this whole housekeeping lark."

"I run a household, Rose, I'm not a—"

"Housekeeper, right."

"I think you get it too."

x-x-x-x-x

"And you said you're not good with people!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed when Mrs. Turner and her "married ones" left with their kids.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I think… I think even if I end up in a big mansion by myself, no matter what job I'm in, I want to have kids—I'll adopt a few high IQ orphans."

"Will you be leaving, Rose?"

"Just for a while. I have business in New Jersey."

"Come back anytime." John added.

I smiled. "I was wondering if maybe a few months from now, you might agree to tell me about being a doctor?"

"Absolutely."


	3. Interlude 1

I've never been the family type. I realise this sounds like angst-ridden teenager nonsense, but honestly, I've never been one for familial sentiment.

I had a godsister who died very slowly from muscle dystrophy last year, and the aftermath was so mild on my part that I was put into therapy to try and diagnose my apathy.

Therapy lasted a week. I was put through a battery of psychological tests, even a lie detector, and their eventual conclusion was that I was really quite lovely and well balanced. The interesting thing was that, while I was hooked up to the polygraph machine, I was lying through my teeth and my pulse didn't waver.

Like father, like daughter—that's what the housekeeper Mrs. Barnes had clucked when I mentioned in passing I'd learned to beat a polygraph. She'd said it with such contempt that I was rather annoyed. Needless to say, Mrs. Barnes is now unemployed and can't seem to get a job _anywhere_.

Pity.

Growing up, I kept detailed notes on what I learned and when; what I read and how long it took me; where I went and who I saw; what I did and how.

This is what I learned about familial sentiment over the years:

_1: Don't let anyone insult the name of Holmes._

_2: All lives end; all lives are lost; _caring is not an advantage_._

So why did I now count Mrs. Hudson and John Watson as the closest thing I'd ever had to a family? Damn sentiment, damn it to the deepest pit of whatever hell might exist for concepts that need to be damned.

I still have detailed notes, and this is no exception.

_1: Being a family is about protecting._

_2: Apologies are rather useful for repairing relationships._

Speaking of family, Father decided he would drop by to talk to me before I went to New Jersey…

"I trust you enjoyed yourself."

"I did, thank you, sir."

"How did you know Miss Adler was alive?"

I didn't like where this conversation was going, so I focused my attention on the blue fountain pen and tried to avoid the piercing blue eyes. "Intuition."

"Rosabel, _intuition_ would tell you that Sherlock's smart enough to save her. _Sherlock_ would tell you she's alive and in New Jersey."

"In the spirit of the Americans, _I plead the fifth_."

"How are you contacting him?"

"Is this an interrogation, sir?"

"Not at all."

"So I can leave?"

"_Sit_."

"Yes, sir."

"Sherlock contacted me after a few months of being dead. How long did you know?"

"I helped him do it."

"I see."

"Father, I—"

"That will be all." He replied as he stood up, starting towards the door.

"Wait." I said suddenly, realising precisely what Mrs. Hudson would do here and acting on it on whim. "I'm sorry, sir."

"What?" Father asked without looking back.

"I'm sorry I kept it from you, but I owed him for teaching me deductive reason, and it wasn't my secret to tell. He hid a cell phone in the garden last time he visited, one you couldn't anticipate enough to keep monitored."

"That was very clever of him."

"He's brilliant. I'm told it's a Holmes trait."

He turned around then, twirling the umbrella awkwardly. "Your mother was intelligent too."

"You're going to tell me, then?"

"Yes."

"You used _was_ rather than _is_. So she's dead?"

"Until her name appeared on your list, I assumed she was."

I did the math repeatedly and still all I could come up with was, "But surely not Irene Adler…" I trailed off as he gave me a tiny half-smirk.

"She was still a travelling actress then, rather down on her luck, but the smartest healthy woman I could find. I hired another young actress to be the surrogate mother, and paid Miss Adler grandly for the use of her eggs. I wanted a child of considerable intelligence to carry on the name of Holmes, and I fear in the process I set Miss Adler up with enough funds to become the woman she is today."

"I always wondered how you ended up with a child."

"What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, for a few years I assumed it was a tragic love story sort of thing, but then I caught on to how the real world works and thought maybe it was a one night stand with disastrous results. Of course, I later discarded that when I realised that if you were to have a one night stand, it would be anatomically impossible for it to result in the conception of a child."

He raised an eyebrow at that, but continued. "I know you believed yourself to be an accident, but I assure you I fully intended to have a child."

"Sir?" I asked, brazened by this. "What would you do if I chose to become a dominatrix at the end of all this?"

"I would expect you to be the very best in whatever field you choose."

"I would have to try very hard to be anything less," I replied, returned to the usual Holmes arrogance now that that family chat was finished (I was still thanking every deity I could think of that it _was_ finished).

Family rule number three:

_3: Do well in life, if only for the sake of family pride._

Or maybe that's just the Holmes family.

**Ugh. I don't like how this little interlude turned out, but I got the vibe there was unfinished business between Irene and Mycroft, so I played with that here. Oh, and yes, Mycroft is gay in this, if only because Gatiss is.**

**Whether you want me to go die in a hole or want me to keep it up, please review.**


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